


With My Crooked Heart

by moz17



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-13 17:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11764758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moz17/pseuds/moz17
Summary: "Perhaps that had been when he had lost the run of himself and looped the rope around Morse's neck".A piece musing on the ever-developing relationship between Morse and Max, in "Canticle".





	1. Chapter 1

Max could not quite articulate what had caused him to pick up the stray piece of rope and to pull it around Morse's neck. A dramatic demonstration of this kind had not been needed; Morse's medium was aural. His mind worked with words and music, not in pictures. He could have just as easily put the question to Morse without reaching for this prop, his line of argument would have probably clicked even faster, and the end result, as regards the case at least, would have been precisely the same. 

Perhaps he had been emboldened by the unusual position of finding himself standing behind Morse, rather than in their accustomed professional stance, meeting face to face, discussing over a corpse not too distant from them, or Max in a crouched position over a murder victim with Morse somewhere off just over on the edge of his peripheral vision, seeking to be as close to the body without fully being able to view it but not so far as to compromise his professional ability.  
Perhaps not being confronted with the Constable's large eyes had allowed him to step forward and then handle the other man in a manner heretofore unfamiliar to their working relationship. It was not to say that DeBryn would not execute such a move on a student, or a new colleague; a calculated action intended to wrong-foot them and throw them off whilst DeBryn remained calm and continued to probe their knowledge and ability to put together a coherent argument whilst flustered, before then assessing whether they were good enough for the exacting standards he placed upon his profession. 

Perhaps he had been drawn to do it after allowing himself to observe for a fraction too long the charming effect of Morse's height contrasted with his narrow rake-like figure- the elegance of it had almost been singing to him. He had approached the younger man, armed with the rope, simultaneously experiencing the rather dizzying sensation of wishing to have the man stand over him in an entirely different context but also to throw him down, have him held beneath him, in some place where they could lose a day together. Perhaps that had been when he had lost the run of himself and looped the rope around Morse's neck. 

Morse's reaction had been intriguing to him, and certainly not what he had expected. For such a sharp mind his reaction had seemed particularly slow, almost if he was not acting on instinct but rather was considering what to do and how to be in this moment. Max's mouth had struggled to not form another line from his beloved Houseman: "A neck God made for other use/Than strangling in a string." Max would indeed accept an acted out strangling as a stand in for those other uses to which such a neck could be put.  
DeBryn was unable to see Morse's eyes, but even without their assistance he could read the man's body as displaying interest, not a knee-jerk panic or drive to escape. As Morse had leaned forward into the light pull of the rope, and then worked his fingers under the material it seemed to Max that he was testing how strong the hold was, wanting to experience the maximum draw and sensation on his skin. Oh, Max had been on the verge of closing that last gap between his lips and Morse's shoulder, he had had to stand still and silently steady himself, and it seemed Morse had waited too, expectantly, glancing over his shoulder, and Max had nearly fallen once more. 

Morse had finally broken the spell whether from a mirrored desire, or more likely, a sense of decency or professionalism which had belatedly kicked in. Max assumed Morse would leave then, as their discussion and demonstration had been concluded; yet he lingered, clearly wishing to say something.

"Have...have you ever read "Justine"?" 

"Well, Constable, however did your mind take such a turn from the matter of murder to the Marquis?" He met Morse's gaze evenly and was gratified by the sure tell of Morse's hand going to his ear and tugging on it, and tucking his chin down to his chest as he did so. 

Sometimes Max wondered to what degree his training as a pathologist influenced his manner in not just abstract thinking, but in how he dealt with others, living. He would proceed with a hypothesis, based on what was presented to him, through words, gestures, tone of voice, and he would then test it to see how strongly it held before endowing it with the status of a theory, and would continue to build on it. If the hypothesis collapsed then he would proceed to the next most likely explanation, a process of elimination he was familiar with from his medical training. He thought personally it was not at all a bad idea to approach that most capricious of creatures, human nature, wielding techniques learned from science and medicine. He further believed that Morse would also find the idea appealing in many aspects. 

"It was just a thought...I saw them reading it up at Maplewick."

There was something endearing in witnessing Morse struggling to discuss such acts and quirks of humanity when one knew from experience how blunt and matter of fact he could be under other circumstances, with suspects, when addressing the same issues. What was the differing factor here then?

"It is certainly a very plausible theory." Max replied, his mind returning to the unsolved case at hand. "Death by misadventure, as they so like to term it. It would be nice and tidy to write it down as a sex game gone terribly wrong but the other surrounding aspects and traces do complicate matters somewhat."

Morse nodded, deep in thought, pausing before asking: "Why do people do it?"

"Do what, murder? Much more your area than mine."

"No." Morse fixed him with that particular look his face took on and that he was never capable of concealing, when he believed someone to be stupid; it was a wonderful mix of disdain and irritation. Max did enjoy this mulish expression of his, particularly when it was trained on others who were unable to measure up to it.

"You know very well that I was referring to the strangulation."

"I can easily supply you with the medical whys and wherefores, as to how it affects the brain and other parts of the anatomy, how this combines to produce such a heightened sense of sexual pleasure. And that is most likely not the wisdom you are requesting that I impart to you." Max took off his glasses, peering at Morse mildly. "All sex, to one degree or another, is about loss of control, surely? Whether of self-control, or indeed physical; it could be there are those who enjoy the frisson of highlighting this inherent aspect and making it the central part of their sexual encounters."

This was what drew him so strongly to the younger man, Max thought, the combination of his wistful beauty, spiky intellect, and facility with words. DeBryn had increasingly found himself looking forward to Morse's visits to his morgue, and experienced a certain amount of discomfort at this, knowing he only came across Morse at the expense of another having lost their life in a violent manner. Yet, he could never allow his attraction to the man to distract him from the job at hand. He had too much respect for those unfortunate enough to end up under his care. So instead he sought to ensure his conversations with Morse remained an accompaniment to his work, at the bare minimum. It had meant their interactions had been somewhat limited, and yet in spite of this their regard for, and the enjoyment they took in one another had broken its way out, as a bud in a dense forest, seeking out the sun.

"I can't think of anything more frightening, total loss of control. Why would I give it up freely?" Morse muttered, brow furrowed.

"Well, since it is the only opportunity one may have to choose to hand over their control, rather than have it wrenched from them. Is desire and love itself not terrifying? The mere idea someone could at any time wander into your world and for no earthly logical reason, is now the one upon whom your emotional state and well-being depends. One is no longer one's own master due to the random occurrence of another colliding with you, like two planets coming to rest during their orbit and upsetting the universe. Surely that prospect, though much lauded and enshrined within a swath of literature and other cultural artifacts, surely that is far more frightening than handing over control of one's body to someone one trusts for the pursuit of purely carnal pleasure?"

Morse's eyes focused on Max, their grey colour shifting in the light coming through the poorly cleaned windows. "You make love sound a heroic undertaking."

"Why not view it as such? Although whether it is an undertaking by Arthur or Don Quixote remains to be seen."

Morse's mouth quirked up and he rocked forward on his left foot. "What would you say to the idea of Jesus and Thomas as lovers?"

"Surely not, Morse." Max's tone dripped with false outrage. "David and Jonathan, rather. You might need to refresh your memory on the bible."

"The bible is also a good source for the sort of bodily mortification you are advocating for."

"Oh, now I comprehend, you wish to enact the physical pain on yourself, not have it done to you by another."

Morse's face had flushed, causing him to appear younger, and almost coquettish. "That remains to be seen, does it not?"


	2. Chapter 2

Even though Max could recite by heart most of the contents of his copy of Housman's "A Shropshire Lad" he did so enjoy the physical sensation of running his fingers over the pages, the thin paper yellowing already, its soft spine bent beyond all salvaging. It was not a pretty edition, rather it had been purchased in some haste as a student with a limited budget, and once he had come upon it in the bookshop he had told himself it would do. He had been enrolled in college to read medicine, yet, Faust-like, he adored literature, music, languages, all those areas deemed somehow opposite to, or at least, not a natural bedfellow for the medical profession which he envisioned for himself. Some late evenings, he valued these arts for precisely this reason, that they had little to do with the lifelong undertaking of entering the medical profession, and for being a more beautiful sphere. Other days, he could not grasp how his fellow students, and now colleagues, could fail to see the very powerful link between these arts and their medical calling; one had only to gaze upon one of the great works of art, "The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp" by Rembrandt, to witness the artistic beauty of the body's mysteries interrogated, of knowledge pursued, and human understanding valued and privileged. He could still recall the power of coming upon a colour plate of this painting for the first time, and its sombre, awed air had stayed with him through his studies until this day. However, there were times when he sought out this artistic world, consciously viewing it as separate to forensic pathology, allowing him to feed some part of himself not sated by the work he did on a daily basis; not that he did not discharge these tasks conscientiously, and with not a small piece of pride and satisfaction. 

He recalled his first encounter with Housman, a book he had picked up by chance, as he searched for some new source of poetry. He read only a few short lines on the page it had fallen open at, and had placed it back on the shelf swiftly. It was clear to him how important this poet was going to be for him and so he could not allow himself to experience the poems in this manner, he had to have his own copy, and so had headed to the nearest bookshop to acquire this. Max luxuriated in these lines, sank into them. He found reading, and poetry, to be a sensuous experience. Not a replacement or a compensation (although there were times it served this purpose), but rather, an accompaniment, an intensifier, enabling him to reach headier heights than possible with only his own direct experiences. The written word and the physical act were not easily separated for Max; he felt the same frisson as he lingered over Housman's words as when the cello in a Bach piece was drawn over a particularly smooth and deep note, and also as when he had an aesthetically pleasing partner in his bed. These occupied a spectrum for Max. 

Discovering that Endeavour nursed an affection for Housman had felt akin to receiving a message which encouraged further cultivation of their friendship as it emerged out of their working one. Houseman had given much solace to Max over the years, and he found himself hoping the same words gave something similar to the younger man, for he appeared in great need of it in recent times. 

Peter Jakes had not, to literally translate a German phrase, corresponded to his scheme of prey. He certainly understood, on an objective level, how the man was perceived by many as highly attractive, even sexy, but all Max possessed in relation to Sergeant Jakes was a respect, and gratitude, for his concise and logical approach to police work, and towards the role of the pathologist. Whispers that reached Max's ears had suggested young Morse was more melancholic than ever due to the abrupt disappearance of Miss Thursday, however, he was not all too sure if he believed this. Could Morse's altered state not as easily be ascribed to the similarly sudden departure of that dark-haired, chain-smoking Sergeant? Max had had many opportunities to observe them at work together and how they fairly created sparks. The mind did not have to take the greatest leap to envision how such fire could find an outlet in another manner. Max had never fully understood their relationship (and he thought sometimes, that perhaps neither did they) and now Jakes' absence seemed to hold much more meaning than his presence, and he didn't want to get carried away, or indeed, commit the grievous mistake of projecting onto Morse. And yet, the way Endeavour had let the word "Love" fall from his curved lips, uttered with such resignation- he had not been caught off guard, but he had registered a certain shift in Morse's attitude to him. He so often resembled a skittish cat, eyeballing those around him with a clear reticence for fear of how they could hurt him so if given too much power over his feelings. 

There was a desperate restraint to Endeavour, and it saddened Max to imagine how uncertain he seemed in his own passions, how foreign his own body seemed to him, for oh, he could tell so clearly that Endeavour Morse could fall into passion and sensual delight if only given the opportunity by the right lover. For he would have to be coaxed and led, he would never dare to do it of his own accord, he would simply stare with hunger written on every inch of his face and body. He could see how Peter Jakes would have been good for Endeavour in this respect, initiating, leading, not allowing him to dwell and brood too much but instead helping him to enjoy the thrill of the physical and to revel in that which so frightened him, the loss of his self-imposed control. He could envision their two figures artfully entwined and how it would create a wonderful sight. 

Somehow Max could sense that there would be another danger attendant to Morse's self-imposed skin-starvation, and that was the moment when it overwhelmed him, and he would drunkenly, misguidedly launch this pent-up longing and loneliness at an inappropriate recipient. This suspicion was what had held him back many a time from pursuing the less professional side of their friendship- thus far. Increasingly, however, Max found his own restraint wavering, and his heart - as well as other parts of him - ached for the ever-paler Endeavour, with more fine lines emerging around his eyes (those fine eyes) on a nearly daily basis. Sometimes it truly was too much to even look at Morse, he just could not hide his emotions and their depth, he was completely artless in this aspect, and it almost frightened Max back into some semblance of professional distance, the mere thought of being in a position to hurt this young man (if he could flatter himself with such a thought) was enough to restrict his attempts to reach through to the man to the purely verbal; but by Christ, it was not easy. He sometimes wondered if he knew at all what it was that Endeavour needed, and if Jakes had, and if indeed he had known, did this then mean that with Jakes' departure had also gone a part of Endeavour, this part of him that the man had understood? Max mourned Morse's loss with him, as well as the knowledge that such a loss could not be publicly expressed, as he, and Housman before him had known too well.


End file.
